The Waterloo Aftermath
by Akira Cat
Summary: On the 20th November 1815, the British army thwarts Napoleon's plans of domination across Europe and the world but France tries to redeem the battle by defeating England in his bloodstained madness. Rated T for blood and gore.
1. Part 1

**DATE: 20th November 1815**

"Angleterre… where are you?" France sang loudly, his crimson smeared sword left a trailing line along the bloody ground of the silent battlefield. He had very little regard for all the corpses lying around him. The person he searched for had to be standing alive somewhere. He was too equal an opponent to give up and walk away and this agitated the Frenchman. Why couldn't he see him? "Angleterre… WHERE ARE YOU!?" He caroled his opponent's name before screeching the last three words after. France wanted to spill more blood despite the admittance of defeat from Napoleonic army a long time ago. He strode over bodies of French and English soldiers until he finally found a man in red uniform still standing. It had to be him. There was no doubt that he would be the only one standing (maybe Prussia too but he already defeated him a while back). A wicked smile crept on the Frenchman's lips as he drew closer to his self-proclaimed opponent. "Zhere you are Angleterre… England…" France let out a giggle. "I've been looking all over for you."

The man stared blankly at the Frenchman with very little care. "Shouldn't you be at home, licking your wounds? This battle has already been won and it was won by Prussia and myself."

"Victory may belong to zee Duke of Wellington but zee battle between us nations is far from over," Sniggers escaped France's mouth as one hand tried to contain them.

England just sighed. "Look at yourself; you're in no condition to be fighting anymore." France looked down himself: his black hat had already been lost in battle leaving his blonde hair tied up in a messy ponytail. His blue jacket, white trousers and black boots had been stained with brown mud and red blood. Of course England looked similar with the substances dirtying his red uniform but he didn't look that rugged. Maybe it was his unkempt, blonde hair. This sent a chuckle to France.

"I am in zee perfect condition to fight," He pressed his hand on the left side of his chest. "My 'eart says so."

"Your mind has been shattered France. You need to go home now," England tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword.

"You want me to give up? Is zat what you're trying to tell me? You're saying zat Francis Bonnefoy, zee personification of France to give up and go 'ome?" He unleashed a maniacal laugh. "I'll never give up! Never! Never! Impossible is a word found in zee dictionary of fools!"

"And look where that quote got you," England drew his sword from his hilt. It looked clean like it had never been used. "This will be your last warning Francis: go home or I shall smite you without hesitation."

France let out a gleeful squeal and pointed his blade at the Englishman. "Now zats zee Art'ur Kirkland I know! I'm going to enjoy zis little fight. Victory shall be mine and I shall be glorious!" France charged at England with his sword ready to strike. This was it! The moment where France would redeem himself through a victory in the sword fight of the century! He shall leave England on the battlefield lying in his own pool of redness, begging for mercy. France shall return to Napoleon and tell him that the battle has not been lost and he shall be praised for his efforts. Napoleon Bonaparte shall smile and rise to power and defeat everyone who was obstacles in his world domination dreams.

So why was there a sudden sharp pain in France's stomach? Why did his body feel agony so suddenly? His haggard breaths became coughs and that's when his worst fears had been confirmed: red. Red blood dribbled from France's mouth and down his chin, dripping onto the soil. He looked to his stomach and it too began revealing the crimson substance spreading across his blue jacket. England's blade had impaled his front and is spreading the redness like a disease. Once the sword had pulled out from him, France collapsed onto his knees and held his wound. England was infecting him with this virus, trying to convert him into English territory and this sent panic into the Frenchman's fragile mind. It had happened once before and it was going to happen again. France tilted his head with what little strength he could muster and revealed himself to be crying. "I wanted… I wanted to spread love… just like you said I should…"

England frowned. "What are you talking about? I said no such thing."

"You did! Remember? At zee court'ouse!" France's voice strained before coughing up more blood. "I tried to stop everyone but I failed… you were just a talking 'ead…"

The Englishman stared at his fallen opponent as if he meant nothing to him. "Francis, you've gone insane. You're still mad after the French Revolution. You are sick Francis. You have an illness."

"Zen change my colour back to blue!" France snapped. The salty tears and blood merged together. "Change me back to blue again! I 'ate zee colour red! Red is bad! I 'ate it! I 'ate it!"

England gave one last pitiful look at the Frenchman before turning and walking away. He couldn't stand this madness anymore. France desperately stretched his arm out to England even though he knew he couldn't grab him. "Art'ur! Come back! Come back!"

No matter how loud France cried England did not return for him. The Frenchman sobbed until he lost the battle to stay conscious. Before his mind eclipsed into darkness, he wondered if he'd see his beloved Jeanne d'Arc the next time he opened his eyes.

* * *

**DATE: 23rd November 1815**

Distorted sounds swam in Francis' head as he finally regained consciousness. The noises individually distinguished themselves causing the Frenchman to wince a little, squeezing his eyes open. His whole body felt groggy while he sat up when a sharp pain shot into his chest unleashing an anguished hiss. Francis' hand grabbed the spot where it hurt, only to feel bandages there. He blinked in confusion and grazed his fingers over the white material.

_This was it! The moment where France would redeem himself through a victory in the sword fight of the century! He shall leave England on the battlefield lying in his own pool of redness, begging for mercy. France shall return to Napoleon Bonaparte and tell him that not all the battle has been lost. He shall praise his efforts and rise to power and defeat everyone who was obstacles in his world domination dreams. So why was there an agonizing pain in France's stomach all of the sudden? His haggard breaths became coughing and that's when his worst fears had been confirmed: red._

They trailed down his torso and stopped to more bandages wrapped around his stomach.

_Red blood dribbled from France's mouth and down his chin, dripping onto the soil. He looked to his stomach; the crimson substance spread across his blue jacket. England's blade had impaled his front and the redness furled like a disease. Once the sword had pulled out of him, France collapsed to his knees and held his wound._

Francis couldn't understand why he was bandaged up. He could have sworn he was somewhere else before. How on earth did he travel from one place to another without his knowledge? He didn't remember passing out at any point.

"So you're finally awake Francis."

The Frenchman snapped his head to the direction of the voice. It was male and had a British accent, so there was no doubt that it would be Arthur Kirkland, dressed in a brown suit, sitting on the wooden chair. Francis stared at him for a few seconds before looking around the grey room. Everything minus what was on the two men and the oak chair and bedside table seemed to be that colour. When he locked his startled sapphire eyes with Arthur's green, his breathing increased in speed and shallowness. He raised his hands to cover his face.

_England was infecting him with this crimson virus, trying to convert him into English territory, sending panic into the France's fragile mind. It happened once before and he was sure it was going to happen again._

Arthur saw the fear creeping into the Frenchman and knew this could turn into the worst-case scenario if he didn't find a way to calm him down. He stood from the chair and dragged it closer to the bedside before sitting on it again and gently grabbed Francis' wrist. "Francis, listen to me; you're in a hospital. You're no longer on the battlefield. It's all over."

The Frenchman's hands and head shook under the trails of blonde hair hanging over his face. "Change-moi au bleu…" He stammered before screaming the sentence again. "Change-moi au bleu! CHANGE-MOI AU BLEU!"

_"I won't let you turn me into English territory again! I can't! I won't!" France screamed and bought his pistol from his holster and aimed it at England, only for another shot of pain to ring from his right shoulder._

_"I said it's over! Napoleon has been defeated and exiled from your country! You're never going to see him again!" Arthur raised his voice a little despite keeping his intense stare on the patient._

"Get away from me!" Francis screeched, pulling away from the Englishman. "You'll turn me red! I 'ate red! I 'ATE IT! I 'ATE RED! Turn me back to blue! AAARGH!" The wounds he received made him yelp in agony again. Arthur instinctively wrapped his arms around Francis.

"Don't move frog! You'll open up your wounds again and the healing process will start again!" He yelled, which worked because Francis stopped struggling and sobbed into the other blonde's suit. Arthur slowly snaked his arms around the Frenchman, making sure he didn't cause him any more injury than he already had. He could hear Francis chant the sentence, "Change-moi au bleu", into him.

_The Englishman stared at his fallen opponent as if he meant nothing to him. "Francis, the French Revolution has driven you insane. You have an illness."_

To see him in that pitiful state tugged at Arthur's heart a little. The French Revolution and the Napoleonic wars had left Francis unhinged and forced him to unleash the bloodshed on people he never meant to kill. He was innocently sane to some degree before the revolutions began. Arthur could see the scratch marks where Francis had scraped his nails on his neck, just to rid himself of the 'itch' he kept complaining about.

_"I wanted to spread zee love just like you said Arsur."_

_"What are you talking about? I never said anything about 'love'."_

_"Yes you did! At zee court'ouse, remember? I tried to stop everyone from cutting off your 'ead but I failed. I failed because I didn't do enough to save you."_

_"I said no such thing. The revolutions and this war have clearly broken your mind."_

Arthur felt odd giving the man he stabbed and shot, the same comfort a parent would give to a child. When Francis' repetition of words died to incoherent mumbles, the Englishman asked himself if and when the two nations would finally come to an agreement of peace.

!

**Hey guys! **

**I always wanted to write a fan fic based on France's madness in the Battle of Waterloo (I know I've written about France being a total nutcase loads of times but never in this type of setting). I actually wrote this a very long time ago but I didn't think it was good enough until my older sis said I should post it up. So here it is.**

**I'm intending to make this a two shot so a second chapter may come up depending. Until then, enjoy, review and fave!**


	2. Part 2

**Date: 13****th**** July 2013**

England mentally sighed of relief for another world meeting finished. Since it took place in Germany, he could relax once he stepped onto British soil and made it back to his house in the suburbs. He didn't try to look like he was in a hurry while he placed his papers in his brief case but all he wanted to do was get home as soon as possible. With all his documents collected and counted for, he took a quick glance around the room. Most other nations were either in conversation with others, were in the process of leaving or had left. That was when England noticed France had already gone, which was unusual for him since he normally left some time in the middle but that was all right. The Briton knew today was the day before France's birthday and he most probably wanted to get back as soon as possible to prepare for celebrations. Although most had been expecting some invitations to a huge birthday bash from the normally flamboyant nation, there was a lack of conversation on the subject, which to many was strange.

England finally left the meeting room with only a few "see you next meetings" from some nations willing to express politeness and made his way down the yellow walled corridor, passing paintings of wurst sausages and mashed potatoes. It took him a moment to catch sight of the young bespectacled America with a beaming face speaking to France (England recognized the wavy blonde hair from the back). He didn't really want to stop and join in the discussion between the two nations he found irritating, he just wanted to get home. Just be polite, say "cheerio" to the both of them and be done about it. America noticed England had quickened his walking speed towards the pair and grinned. "See you later England!" He pretty much yelled.

"Yes, see you next meeting America," England held back a moment of cringe from the youngster's volume before turning to a distant looking France. "And happy birthday to you France."

Snapping out of some kind of stupor, the Frenchman perked his head up as if he returned to reality from a daydream. "Oh. Merci." He stammered as England took his leave.

The straw-like haired nation took a few steps away from the two men and already regretted the mention of the special day in front of America as the youngster's voice intensified in excitement.

"Oh yeah! I almost forgot it was your birthday tomorrow! Happy birthday France! Another year older!"

England could hardly hear the Frenchman's side of the conversation but he knew he was being modest about it. Of course most nations didn't really think of their birthdays, as anything but public holidays however France was a special case. His birthday happened to be on the day that started the decline of his sanity. And as England stopped and turned back to the pair, he noticed France was uncomfortable with what America shouted, by the expression of his face.

"Dude! I thought you'd be more excited for your birthday! I mean sure you have parades during the day and fireworks in the evening but you never threw a single party ever! What kind of person calls themselves the "country of love" but doesn't show it?"

England really wanted to go over to America and tell him to mind his own business but he didn't want to be impolite. However, that was the least of his concerns as France's right hand floated to his neck and unconsciously began scratching it.

"You should totally go all out and get a giant cake, more fireworks and just make a big thing out of it! Birthdays only come around once a year you know and you should totally celebrate it with everyone!"

"Shit!" England cursed in his head and marched towards the two nations. He mentally scolded himself for bringing up France's birthday in front of America. He knew if the American accidentally overwhelmed the Frenchman enough, his fingernails could claw out his throat and there'll be trouble. The red scratch marks had already formed on the flesh and England feared the worst when France's other hand rose towards his neck.

"I know it's a bit late to do it now since everyone will be given little notice but you should totally do it next year! It'll be great! I bet you'll have a blast!"

Before the other hand could commence scratching, France swayed slightly from side to side. Spotting the sudden yet subtle change England knew he had to get to him fast or-

"Hey France, are you okay? You don't look so good," America cocked his head to the side inquisitively. The Frenchman didn't respond as his vacillation became more obvious before he lost his balance, his mind blacked out.

"France!" England cried and caught him before the Frenchman could experience a rougher landing.

"Holy crap!" America yelled. "He was fine seconds ago!"

"America! Go get some help or something! Go!" The Englishman shot an intense stare at his fellow nation before the American whipped out his cell phone and called for an ambulance. Meanwhile England tried to bring France back to consciousness by patting his cheeks and encouraging him to open his eyes. He just hoped the first thing France doesn't see when he wakes up was anything red.

!

_"One third of my flag is red, the English uniform until the end of the 19__th__ century was red, the background on Nazi Germany's flag was red and red blood. Red is the most beautiful color, yet it comes at a price. It is my favorite and most hated color." _

France's eyes danced open only to be blinded by a white light for a moment before it finally cleared to reveal a very pale green walled room. He studied his surroundings; purple and pink pansies sat in a blue vase on top of a bedside table. Sunlight beamed through a window to his left that shone upon the pastel blue, speckled, laminate floor and a heart monitor which wasn't switched on so he was physically fine at least. Just when the Frenchman realized he wasn't in the place where the nations had the meeting, a familiar British accent softly said, "Oh good, you're finally awake". France turned his head to find England gazing at him with a small degree of concern. He couldn't help but stare into the calm emerald eyes for a moment before looking towards the end of the bed. "How are you feeling?" England asked and crossed his legs. France didn't look at the other when he answered him.

"A little dizzy," He replied with no particular tone to his voice. "I… The last thing I remember before I blacked out was being overcome by red."

England ran a hand through his short blonde hair. "That was most likely my fault. Had I not have reminded America it was your birthday tomorrow then he wouldn't have overwhelmed you with his over-eccentric ideas. Honestly, he thinks everyone should make a huge thing out of their birthdays."

"Ouais," France nodded. "I don't even like watching the fireworks at this time of year because they remind me of chaos too much. I get headaches just thinking about it." He placed a hand on his forehead before turning to England. "So what did the doctor say about me?"

"They said that you'd be all right. You just blacked out from a stimuli that overwhelmed you but they're keeping you here over night for observation in case," England explained.

"That means I'm most likely going to miss a lot of the festivities tomorrow," France sighed.

"They said you'd be well enough to leave in the morning and your country lies in a different time zone to Germany's so you can still get some hours back."

"To be honest, I don't want to go back and celebrate. Why should I rejoice over something that drove me to madness?" England planted his elbow on his leg and cushioned his cheek with his hand.

"I know but I suppose since you being there is so much of a tradition, it'd be an outrage for you not to attend the commemoration of the day you were born."

"I know," France sat up, hugged his knees and blankly stared at the space at the end of the bed again. "I just wish America didn't bombard me with such excitable suggestions."

"Yes, I'll be having serious words with him." For the second time, France looked at England.

"England?"

The other glanced at the Frenchman. "Yes?"

France fidgeted with his fingers and glanced at them before snatching a look from England. "Um… thanks… for always being there to pick up the pieces. I know you get annoyed having to do that for me but… I'm grateful that you're still willing to spare me from death even when I'm ready to embrace it."

England jolted from the sudden appreciation and cleared his throat. "Well as much as you agitate me, I can't help but support you in your hour of need."

"Oooh… you really are a gentleman, not straying from the Entente Cordiale," France raised a smirk to which he received a scowl from England.

"It's not like I see you as a friend," he retorted. "Just be lucky I even signed the damn thing!"

France let out a laugh. "I'm glad you did though. Shame you didn't sign the marriage registration form during the Suez Canal crisis."

"Shut up and get better so you can get back to your own country!" England folded his arms. "I doubt Germany would want you staying in one of the hospitals in his country longer than he'd like you to."

"Fine! Fine!" The Frenchman chortled before he gave England a smile. "You don't have to but I'd like it if you stayed with me until visiting hours are over. My headache's going as I talk to you."

England let out a growled sigh. "Fine. But just so you know, I have a plane to catch back to my country."

"But of course," France chuckled before he asked; "When I do get out of here, can the two of us go out for a quiet drink on my birthday? Nowhere flash or fancy. Just somewhere where I can feel as comfortable as I'm feeling right now."

England nodded with a sincere smile. "If that's what you want, then that's what we'll do."

France grinned before he reclined slightly in the hospital bed and closed his eyes. He sighed contently with the knowledge that at least he won't look as though he's skipping the traditions on his birthday and national holiday.

**FIN.**


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